


Extenuating Circumstances

by Eligh



Series: Various Musings on How Clint Barton Should Join Phil Coulson's Motley Crew [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Phil is busy person okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eligh/pseuds/Eligh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ball or two may have been dropped while Phil was dealing with this whole Whitehall thing. Sorry?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extenuating Circumstances

Phil has just enough time to register Bobbi’s apologetic grimace before he’s being shoved backward into his office, a familiar, calloused hand tugging at the lapels of his jacket.

“You said you were going to behave!” Bobbi protests, but Clint just snorts at her and shuts the door behind them with enough force that it almost qualifies as a slam.

“Full disclosure,” Phil begins, “I tried to call.”

“I had to go on the run,” Clint growls, “because I got cut off from all support in friggin _Latveria_.” He pushes Phil up against his desk, and Phil braces himself with two hands to keep from toppling. “Latveria, Phil!”

Whatever half-snarked-apology Phil’d been preparing to voice dies on his lips. Clint looks _furious_ , angry now like he never once was when Phil’d called him out of the blue a year ago and informed him that rumors of his death had been mildly exaggerated. Phil winces. Seems that their usual banter is out of place at the moment. “I’m—it’s inexcusable, but I’m sorry. There were… extenuating circumstances.” Like the realization that one member of his team wasn’t actually completely human.

Clint cocks an eyebrow. “Extenuating circumstances.”

Phil slowly straightens and sets his shoulders. He’s not going to apologize again; Clint can hold his own better than practically anyone alive, as evidenced by the complete and utter ghost he became in for those first few months after Hydra’s big reveal.

There’s a beat of silence, and something in Clint’s face shutters. “I got your files,” he finally offers. A moment later, there’s a thumb drive clicking into place on the desk next to Phil’s hand, and then Clint’s retreating and settling into parade rest a precise five feet away. He gazes blankly at a point in the middle distance that’s just a few inches over Phil’s left shoulder. “Anything else, sir?”

Phil rolls his jaw in annoyance. “Don’t do that.”

Clint’s face stays blank. “Sir?”

Any resolve that Phil might have been trying to keep abruptly crumbles. He takes a couple hasty steps forward and touches Clint’s face with gentle fingers, and some of the ice in Clint’s eyes thaws. “It was Skye,” he murmurs, and whatever’s left of Clint’s perfect soldier routine melts.

“Is she okay?” he asks, and there’s a sharp note of worry in his voice.

“Yes.” Phil pauses, shakes his head. “No. I don’t know. She’s alive, but not really talking about it.” Clint’s hands drift up and settle into their proper places on his hips. Phil licks his lips. “I’ve decided what happened to her is classified.”

And _there’s_ the knowing smirk. “That _is_ your prerogative, Director.”

Phil kisses him then, slow and sweet. It’s as much to shut him up as it is to let him know how much Phil missed him. How worried he was about him.

“How was Latveria?” he asks, pulling back teasingly when Clint starts showing signs of pressing his luck for an inappropriate workplace assignation. Clint takes a breath and glares a little before chewing briefly on his lip and then pushing Phil gently back in the direction of the desk.

“Doom-tastic,” he says dryly.

“Hardly a proper sitrep, Barton,” Phil observes, even as his heart rate kicks up a notch and his fingers tighten where they’re clasped together at the small of Clint’s back.

“I’ll sitrep your face,” Clint quips—badly—and Phil huffs out an amused breath.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks, and if there’s an undercurrent of actual worry, Clint’s the only one who would be able to hear it.

Clint kisses him once again before answering. “No. Though your ‘classified’ bullshit isn’t gonna fly. I wanna know what happened to your little prodigy surrogate daughter.”

“Wouldn’t that make her _our_ little prodigy surrogate daughter?” Phil asks, thoughtful. Clint rears back, his expression horrified.

“Hell no, I’m not old enough to be her dad. Besides, she has absolutely no aptitude with a bow. I mean, have you _seen_ her? I don’t even know what Melinda’s got her doing, but it certainly isn’t—”

Phil snorts in derision and leans in again. There are better things for Clint to be doing with his mouth instead of running it.


End file.
